


Silver Bells

by azriona



Series: Hearts [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar Drabble, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Children, Christmas, Ficlet, M/M, Omega Verse, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 06:38:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John tries to make Emily’s first Christmas as full as family as he can.  He’s only missing the main ingredient.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part 1.5 of the Heart ‘Verse, but can work as a standalone. 
> 
> The last Advent Calendar Drabble, requested by , who wanted Emily’s first Christmas. As it happens, that would be _this_ Christmas, as in today and tomorrow, since if Sherlock jumped in 2011, Emily would be born in February 2012. Since this story runs over 11K, I’ll be posting in two parts, today and tomorrow.

_God rest ye merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay…_

The carol circled in the back of John’s mind; he half sang it under his breath in an absent-minded reminder. He struggled to hold the wiggling Emily and the canvas hold-all as he locked 221B. The rest of the bags were already downstairs; he’d done the majority of the packing and carrying after Emily had gone to sleep the night before, and the only thing left to take downstairs, apart from themselves, was the hold-all with their toothbrushes and Emily’s bedtime paraphernalia. 

_Remember Christ, our Savior, was born on Christmas Day…_

On the ground floor foyer, John set Emily down and started to fix his scarf around his neck. Emily was already on the third step, headed back upstairs, when he picked her up and put her back on the floor. Undeterred, Emily started to climb again. 

“Tairs,” said Emily, terribly pleased with herself. 

“Nice try,” John told her, and moved her back down again. The mobile in his pocket trilled out an incoming message; the music told John exactly who was sending it, and he rolled his eyes. 

“Mrs Hudson!” he called. “We’re off!” 

“Oh!” There was a bit of a clatter, and then Mrs Hudson appeared in her doorway, flour smudged on her apron and something dark on her reddened cheek. She fluttered over as John plucked Emily from the fourth stair. “She’s getting very good at that, isn’t she?” 

“Ten months, I’d expect so,” said John, a bit wearily. 

“Tairs tairs tairs,” babbled Emily happily, waving her arms as if she was still climbing, and Mrs Hudson leaned into give her a kiss. 

“Have a lovely time,” Mrs Hudson told them. “I’ll have something hot for your dinners when you return tomorrow night.” 

“Ta, Mrs Hudson, you don’t have to—” 

“Nonsense, you’ll be tired from the journey – what is that music?” 

John grinned and pulled out the mobile, once again blaring an incoming call. “Imperial Death March. Don’t you remember Star Wars, Mrs Hudson? It’s Mycroft Holmes telling me the car is here.” 

“ _John_ ,” scolded Mrs Hudson. “You’re as bad as Sherlock.” 

“I can only dream, Mrs Hudson.” 

“Like it or lump it, Mycroft Holmes is family. And it’s Christmas. Do be good to him, John, even if you don’t think he deserves it.” 

_To save us all from Satan’s power when we were gone astray…_

“Say bye-bye, Emmy, and blow your Gran a kiss,” John told his daughter, because talking to Emily was easier than answering Mrs Hudson. 

“Bye bye,” sang Emily, and tapped her open mouth with the palm of her hand. 

The driver carried their bags to the boot; Mycroft was in the backseat of the car, the phone to his ear. He hung up when John opened the door, and the music stopped playing. Mycroft frowned, and John tried not to smile. There was a car seat already installed for Emily, who babbled happily as she was strapped in, and John struggled to adjust the straps. 

“You haven’t been to Sussex in some time, have you?” said Mycroft, who knew perfectly well the last time John and Emily had visited the Holmes estate. 

“Aurora has spent a lot of time in the city the last few months,” replied John, keeping his voice even and non-defensive, and Emily’s buckle slid into place. The car slid into traffic as Mrs Hudson waved from the door, and John lifted his hand to her in farewell before turning his attention to his own seatbelt. 

“Hmm,” said Mycroft. “She’s quite talkative. Does any of it ever make any sense?” 

Emily had not stopped babbling for one moment, most of it completely unintelligible. “She can say a few words. I’m sure a few days with your excellent elucidation and she’ll be reciting Shakespeare in no time.” 

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Mycroft dryly. “You had dinner with your sister yesterday. I trust she is…well?” 

When he knew perfectly well she was not, because he was Mycroft Holmes, and he was, as he liked to remind people, much smarter than Sherlock had been. John had no doubt that Mycroft could read the entire Christmas Eve dinner by the circles under John’s eyes and the way he’d combed his hair that morning. 

“She is,” replied John tersely, and stared out the window. He decided that if Mycroft called his bluff, he would enquire about his diet. It had always worked for Sherlock. Mrs Hudson had said he was starting to be a little like Sherlock…in for a penny, in for a pound, John theorized, but Mycroft merely made a noise in the back of his throat which might have meant anything at all. 

A bit like Sherlock, thought John, and leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He remembered how much Sherlock had disliked going to the estate for Christmas, for Easter, for any reason at all, really, and thought that if Sherlock had been there, they’d still be in 221B, sitting amongst the tissue paper and watching Emily try to topple the tree. 

Or maybe not – maybe Sherlock would be having a sulk about something, or still asleep, or off trying to solve a murder, and it’d be John and Emily alone on a grey morning, wishing Christmas in practice resembled anything like Christmas on the telly. A Christmas with a shining tree and lovely music and friends and family who weren’t dead drunk or just dead… 

John exhaled in a long stream. Now he was turning into Sherlock, maudlin and morbid. John wondered if it was a good sign that he took the little bit of him that was Sherlock, and held onto it tightly. 

_O tidings of comfort and joy; comfort and joy, o tidings of comfort and joy._

* 

_Away in a manger, no crib for a bed_

The Holmes estate in Sussex was lovely in the summer and striking in the winter. The house was far less opulent and grand than John would have expected; it was old, centered on a large swath of land that boasted orchards and fields, walking pathways and kissing gates and a stream that twisted through a wood like a fairy tale. Part of the drive even went over the stream, and through the wood, and snippets of the song broke into the never-ending litany of Christmas carols running through John’s mind, which was a welcome relief. 

In the summer, the grass rolled green in ten shades, with cows and sheep in the fields, hyacinths and stargazers and lilies and flowers John couldn’t name bursting into color along the stone fences. The orchards were ringed with berries, and at the bottom of the sheep enclosure was a pond, which John had been reliably informed was the scene of a pirate shipwreck some thirty years previously, and if he cared to dive into the muck, he’d find the remains of the Good Ship Extremely Disreputable and Rather Grumpy Roger, where the dastardly pirate Sherlock had met his watery grave. Sent there, of course, by Her Majesty’s faithful lapdog/servant, the Honorable but Somewhat Overbearing Admiral Mycroft. 

It explained a great deal about the brothers, thought John. 

The pond wasn’t quite frozen, though John could see the odd flat planes of the ice along the edges, where the water was shallowest. The grass was a less vibrant green, beaten down by weeks of frost and half-attempts at snow. The cows and sheep, ever sturdy and stalwart, continued their grazing, but looked at the car forlornly, as if hoping it might turn into a nice patch of clover as a Christmas treat. The trees made criss-cross lines against the faded blue sky. It was no less beautiful than in the summer, John thought, but was pleased when the car finally pulled up to the yellow-stone three-story manor, where every window blazed with light and ivy, red ribbons visible through the glass. 

_The little lord Jesus laid down his sweet head_

Aurora was out the door like a shot the moment the car stopped, wrapped in a jumper and a scarf, and had managed to pull Emily out of her carseat before John had even unbuckled his seatbelt. By the time John stepped out of the car, he only caught a glimpse of Aurora’s scarf as she sailed into the house through the front door, which closed with a slam. 

Mycroft stepped out of the car next to John, and the two men silently contemplated the closed door to the cheerful house. 

“And here I thought your mother at least liked _you_ ,” said John. 

“I doubt she would have locked it,” said Mycroft finally. 

“You don’t sound so sure.” 

“It’s my mother, I’m never sure,” said Mycroft, and went to open the door. 

_The stars in the bright sky looked down where he lay_

The house smelled of cinnamon and cloves and mulled wine. John carried the bag of presents into the front lounge, where the tree had been set up by the window. There were at least half a dozen clearly marked for himself, but that paled in comparison to the several dozen which were for Emily. Most of them were small – books, or clothes, John supposed. Aurora may have been lavish, but she was sensible; the vast majority of the things she’d already gifted to her granddaughter were hand-me-downs from prior Holmes children, or at the very least, machine-washable. John was relieved not to be burdened with excessive amounts of hand-wash-only-in-sustainably-sourced-water-from-the-Himalayas clothing, and he’d even noted places in the newborn dressing gowns where they’d been mended over the years. 

If Aurora had been any other person, it would be easy to interpret the hand-me-downs as cold comfort, but there was something about Aurora that made John comfortable around her. She didn’t remind him of his own parents, not exactly, though in some ways she wasn’t dissimilar to John’s own mother. But there was always something odd, John thought, about being at the Holmes estate without Sherlock (not that he’d ever been there with him). John was technically family, but without the lynchpin, and had Aurora been less welcoming, John might have felt the rub of not quite fitting. Only he never did. Aurora never gave him the chance; she simply welcomed him in and gave him something to do and that seemed to be enough. 

Aurora acted as though John belonged, and because of that, John was never given the chance to question whether or not he in fact did. And certainly Emily ought to belong – the last thing John wanted was to deny her any connection she might form to Sherlock’s memory. If spending Christmas, feeling slightly out of step, was the price, then John was willing to pay it. 

His gifts added to the pile, John went to carry the rest of their belongings up to the rooms long since allocated to himself and Emily. Sherlock’s old rooms. A bedroom, and a smaller wardrobe/dressing room, and then a lavatory. The bedroom was spacious enough for Emily’s cot, a beautiful wooden affair that John had decided probably housed some royal child or another at some point in time. The rooms were simple enough, as different from the comfortable clutter of 221B as it was possible to be, and had Aurora not told him, John would never have known that they’d been Sherlock’s. There wasn’t much of the man left in them, apart from the dusty child’s microscope in the back of the cupboard, a discarded notebook with childish scrawls of mathematical problems shoved under the bed, and a bit of musical notes scribbled in pencil on the wall by the windows behind the curtains, which John might not have found at all had he not been looking for Emily’s dummies, thrown in the middle of the night in a strop. 

The microscope had been clearly well-loved and well-used, and John let it be. The notebook of maths was unintelligible, both because the writing was so horrible, and because John couldn’t make heads or tails whether it was chemistry or physics or something else altogether. 

_The little lord Jesus asleep in the hay_

The music was John’s favorite. He only vaguely remembered how to read music, from when he’d learned the clarinet in school, but he could tell that the notes weren’t from any composition he recognized. Something Sherlock had written, then, and John had tried to sing the notes to himself, and thought them reasonably pretty, but nothing particularly special. More than he’d been able to do, at any rate. Sherlock had signed it, with a small “SH”, and the date, 1987. 

In 1987, John had been fifteen, starting his secondary education with relief. Sherlock would have been finishing his primary education. John wondered, if they’d met, if they would have liked one another, or merely seen themselves as the stereotypes of their biology. 

Musical notes drifted into the room – a piano playing, somewhere, the careful and deliberate notes of a Christmas carol filling the air, interrupted by a deep, resonant, unmusical chord which sounded exactly like a small hand striking the keys with glee. 

_The cattle are lowing, the poor Baby awakes_

The playing continued, and John finished putting away the clothes, arranging Emily’s cot with her preferred blanket. There was already a white noise machine waiting, as well as a monitor, and John tested them both to make sure they worked properly, before following the music downstairs. The music started and halted as Aurora played the tune with one hand – the other surely holding Emily on her knee –and the closer John came to the room with the piano, he better he was able to hear her singing the half remembered lyrics. 

“But the little lord Jesus, no crying he makes. Oh, that’s a lovely chord, Emily, hit that one again. Very good! You don’t cry at all, do you? Of course not, you’re a perfect angel.” 

John leaned against the doorway, unnoticed, and smiled. Emily sat on Aurora’s lap, hands on the piano keys, every so often adding her own discordant notes to her grandmother’s precise playing. John watched the pair of them, Emily laughing with every disruption, and Aurora playing the notes from memory. 

Emily’s dark hair was just beginning to curl. John saw the way Emily’s face wrinkled with pleasure, the way Aurora briskly cried out, “Very good, again!” and it hurt too much to watch them together, lost in their own little world, happy and carefree and in love with each other’s brilliance. John slipped from the room before either of them noticed him, and found Mycroft standing in the hall, watching John in turn with a pained expression. The playing continued, with Aurora’s thin voice floating into the hall after him. 

“Your mother is keeping her from destroying the piano, if that’s what you’re worried about,” John told him, thinking that perhaps Mycroft would have rather had earplugs for Christmas than the gift actually waiting for him under the tree. 

“Of that I have no doubt,” said Mycroft dryly. “Is she well?” 

John blinked at Mycroft. “Is she – Emily, you mean? Of course she’s well. Does she look sick to you?” 

“I meant – is she progressing at a normal rate for a child her age? Verbally, physically, mentally, emotionally.” 

John gaped at Mycroft. “I...I’m sorry, what?” 

“Her facilities, John,” persisted Mycroft. “Is she normal?” 

“Is she… _normal_?” John took a breath and tried to hold back the surge of annoyance. He reminded himself it wasn’t about Mycroft or his question, not so much – it was still leftover from the night before with Harry. 

“It’s a simple question, John, I wouldn’t think it would task you overly much to answer it.” 

To hell with it. “I’m sorry,” said John, bristling. “But it’s a bit of a shock, hearing you ask about Emily, when you haven’t seen her more than twice since she was born. Your _mother_ lives in bloody Sussex, and sees her every other week. You live in London and I doubt you’d know her if you passed her on the street.” 

Mycroft stiffened. “I beg your pardon—” 

“Don’t pretend. I saw you stare in the car – you couldn’t believe she was as large as she is now. She’s _fine_ , Mycroft. Which you would know if you spent time with her,” snapped John. 

“My work—” 

“Never kept you from Sherlock,” said John. “You were at 221B once a week, easily, with time for tea. The last time you spent more than ten minutes in the flat, Sherlock was still alive.” 

“John—” 

“No. I don’t want to hear it. Your mother asked us for Christmas, and I know she loves Emily, so we’re here. I won’t argue with you and spoil it for her. Just don’t pretend an interest in Emily that you clearly do not possess.” 

John walked by Mycroft, who remained in the hall, so perfectly still and poised that John might have thought the man was stunned. Except John doubted that Mycroft Holmes could ever actually _be_ stunned by anything at all. 

“Oh,” said John, and he turned when he reached the end of the hall. “Since you didn’t ask, I’m doing fine. I’m getting six hours of sleep that are never consecutive, I’m able to afford the food and the rent and the nursery fees, with enough left over for heat suppressants, and if you thought they were uncomfortable before pregnancy, you should try them after. I actually got five minutes to put my feet up and read a book the other day. I haven’t had the flu yet, Christ knows how I’d manage to cope with nausea and a toddler at the same time, but I’m ever so glad I can count on you, Mycroft, to help me out in times of need.” 

“John—” 

John didn’t want to hear it. He kept walking, and didn’t stop until Mycroft was far behind him. 

_Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care_  
_And take us to heaven to live with Thee there_

* 

_It came upon a midnight clear, that glorious song of old._

Harry was twenty minutes late. That should have been John’s first clue, because Harry had always been a punctual person growing up, in the years before she’d started drinking. She was born on time, she cut her first teeth on time, she walked and talked when the books said she would, and she’d even presented right on schedule. John hadn’t really learned punctuality until he was in med school, whereas Harry seemed to have been born with it, and didn’t lose the knack until she’d turned to the bottle. 

But when Harry walked in the door, her smile was bright and not a bit forced; she laughed and smiled and cooed at Emily. She hung up her coat and set the shopping bags of presents under the window. 

_From angels bending near the earth to touch their harps of gold_

“John, please tell me you didn’t skip a tree?” Harry had her feet on the sofa, bouncing Emily on her knees while Emily laughed and waved her arms like a bird. John had left them to each other in order to finish pulling dinner out of the oven – a roast, because it was easy, and would keep well while they were in Sussex. 

“Emily is trying to pull up on things,” explained John patiently. “She’d topple it over on herself. I’ve treated three children this week alone because they injured themselves on trees.” 

“Emily is smarter than other children,” said Harry. “And I wanted to show her the episode where the trees start shooting and the Doctor isn’t there to save everyone.” 

John stuck his head out of the kitchen for a moment. “I think she’s a little young for Doctor Who yet, Harry.” 

“Nonsense. She’s certainly too young for killer snowmen, but I think given your recent patient history, a healthy fear of Christmas trees isn’t such a bad thing.” 

John shook his head and went back to the roast. 

“Never thought you’d be the overprotective parent,” Harry continued. 

John thought that he hadn’t expected it, either. “Well, I’m the only one she has,” he said, and walked back into the sitting room. “And she’s the only one _I’ll_ have, so…” John shrugged. 

Harry gave Emily another bounce. “You don’t have to be so defensive. It’s not a _bad_ thing. Just…unexpected. You and Sherlock, always running around London nearly getting yourselves killed. I suppose I just thought—” 

John sat on the armrest behind Harry and watched as Emily flapped her arms again, clearly wanting another ride. “Well,” he said, trying to keep his tone even, “that was always Sherlock, more than me. I only followed his lead. And he’s not here anymore, so it’s not like I’ve got reason to go looking for trouble. In fact, I’d say I’ve got a pretty good reason to stay out of it.” 

Harry’s laugh was dry. “Just as well. It’s not like I’d see her that often if something _did_ happen to you. ” 

John frowned. “Harry—” 

“No, no, water under the bridge,” said Harry briskly. “I’d make a bloody awful mum, we know that. The Grand old Duke of York, Em. He had ten thousand men. He marched them up the hill—” 

Harry kept up the game, bouncing Emily on her knees. John rested his hand on Harry’s shoulder for a moment; she felt thin and fragile under his hand, more so than Emily with her baby fat, and John hesitated, wondering when Harry had become so thin. He half wanted to ask her if she was all right, if she wanted to talk – but she wouldn’t answer truthfully. She’d laugh and brush him away, and coo at the baby, and he’d never been one to confide in her, nor she in him. “Dinner’s ready. There’s water, or juice, and I think there’s a bottle of Coke if you want—” 

“Not a proper Christmas without wine,” sighed Harry. 

“Yes, well,” said John. 

Harry touched her nose to Emily’s. “Coke would be lovely, or water. It doesn’t matter. Whatever you’re having.” 

There were two bottles in the back of the fridge; John poured them into glasses while Harry put Emily in her high chair. Emily pounded the tray with shrieks of indignation and impatience, and John put the smallest slivers of potato and carrot, both rendered mush with a fork, and shredded beef in front of her. Emily immediately pushed one open hand into the potato, and the other in the carrot, and deposited the food into her hair with a laugh. 

“Lovely,” said Harry. 

“Sometimes it goes in her mouth,” said John wryly, and went back into the kitchen to find a bib. 

_Peace on the earth, goodwill to men from heaven’s all gracious King!_

Harry had been twenty minutes late – that should have been John’s first clue. But she was smiling and laughing and she kept up her end of the conversation; her hair was clean and brushed, her clothes were neat, and she remembered all the words to Good King Wenceslas, and John pretended she’d been late because of traffic. It was plausible, and if he didn’t need to refill her glass more than once during dinner, he was determined not to notice. 

Emily, presented with a shiny box with a bow, wasn’t sure what to do with it. She reached for the bow with her small fingers, pulled at the fancy loops, and when it didn’t immediately come off the package, looked up at the adults with a displeased expression. It looked so much like one of Sherlock’s petulant and disgruntled expressions, that John’s heart caught and he burst into laughter at the same time. 

“Doesn’t she know to rip the paper?” asked Harry, nervous. 

“She hasn’t even had a birthday yet,” said John, and pulled the bow and ribbon off the package. “Here, Em, help me rip it open. This is the best part.” 

“I knew I’d mess it up,” said Harry, and John gave a start at the sudden morose tone to Harry’s voice. Harry sat on Sherlock’s chair, her knees drawn up, a bit like she was trying to curl herself into a ball. For the first time since she’d arrived, John remembered Harry the way he’d found her, coming home from Afghanistan – smaller, somehow, curled on the couch in an empty apartment, holding a wine bottle as if it held her barely beating heart. 

“It’s fine. I probably would have done the same thing.” He helped Emily unwrap the brightly colored musical box. “Look, Em – it’s a music box!” 

“It’s apparently the popular gift for babies this year,” said Harry nervously. “Each side plays a different instrument, and you can make them go in and out of the song when you press them.” 

“It’s perfect, Har,” said John with a smile as Emily hit her hands against the box. It made no sound, except the faint clicks of the buttons as plastic hit plastic. “I’ll have to find batteries for it.” 

“One of the instruments is a violin,” said Harry, still curled on the chair. She pushed her mouth against her knees, expectantly. 

John managed to pull the box from Emily’s hands, and turned it until he saw the picture of the violin. “Yeah,” he said, thinking of the violin on the top shelf of the wardrobe. “She’ll like this.” 

_The world in solemn stillness lay to hear the angels sing._

He let Harry put Emily down to sleep while he did the washing up. He liked Emily’s bedtime, holding her and giving her a last bit of milk, singing her lullaby and reading her a story. It was his favorite part of the day, he thought, sometimes, but it was nice to have the extra time to himself, to put everything in the flat to rights before sitting on his chair and letting his muscles remember that he was too old for all of it. 

And anyway, Emily’s bedtime, the comfort and the love and the dark, that was a gift he allowed himself every day. He’d have a few thousand more of them, John figured, before Emily was too old to want them anymore. It wasn’t so many, not in the grand scheme of things, but he could afford to give one to Harry, especially when he knew how much she loved them, too. 

The extra food was put away, the worst of the dishes left to soak, and John had filled the dishwasher when he realized he’d forgotten the glasses. He couldn’t remember which was his or Harry’s, and anyway, there wasn’t much left in either. John lifted a glass to his mouth, ready to finish it off, when he tasted it. 

Rum. 

John stopped, and leaned against the doorway between the kitchen and the sitting room. “Oh, Harry,” he sighed, his arms dropping to his sides, and he listened to the strains of Harry’s voice, wavering its way through a lullaby. 

“Still through the cloven skies they come,” sang Harry, “with peaceful wings unfurled. And still their heavenly music floats o’er all the weary world.” 

John moved heavily back to the table, and set the glass down at Harry’s place. He stared at it for a moment, and then went to find the rest of the Coke. He topped off the glass, leaving barely a millimeter of room, and left the bottle beside it, and sat on his chair to wait. 

Harry wasn’t much longer. She came down the stairs quietly, and let out a relieved sigh when she reached the sitting room. 

“She was asleep before I even finished singing,” she said smugly, and reached for the glass of Coke, and froze. “You didn’t have to top me off.” 

“No, I suppose I filled it up a bit much for your special addition,” said John quietly. 

Harry sat down on the couch. “Ah.” 

“Harry—” 

“It’s fine, John,” said Harry quickly. “Look, I’m fine. You didn’t even know. You couldn’t even tell, could you? I haven’t had a drink in over a year. And I thought – it’s Christmas, and it used to take so much to get pissed, just a little won’t hurt. I’ll be fine if I only have a little.” 

“How much is a little, Harry?” asked John quietly. 

“Just…a little. A tiny pour. Barely noticeable!” 

“I could smell the alcohol just by picking up the glass, Harry,” said John harshly. “So don’t tell me there was just _a little_ that you added.” 

“I – it was!” 

_Above its sad and lowly plains, they bend on hovering wing_

John pushed himself off the chair. He took both the offending glass and the bottle of Coke, and went into the kitchen, where he started to pour them both in the sink. Harry followed him, her arms wrapped around her, and John saw the dark circles under her eyes, the way her hair was just a bit too shiny, as if she washed it especially for him. The clothes were too neat, too new, as if she didn’t dare wear something comfortable. Harry was holding herself on edge, and he saw the fear in her eyes, and it hurt. 

“Get out,” he said, watching as the fizzy liquid bubbled and foamed as it flowed down the drain. 

“John—!” 

“You promised, Harry,” said John, barely able to rein in his anger. “When Emily was born. You _promised_ me you’d stay sober. Emily’s got the cards stacked against her, Harry. Her father was an addict, she’s got the Watson gene for alcoholism in there too. She’s got too much to lose, and the _last_ thing I want is for her to think that allowing you to give in to your addictions is _healthy_. I don’t want you around her if you’re going to slide right back into addiction.” 

“Fat lot of good a promise does me,” said Harry, and the bitterness is thick in her voice. “You don’t even trust me with Emily.” 

“I do trust you. How many Saturdays does she stay with you while I’m working?” 

“With Mrs H downstairs on call and checking in every half hour? That’s trust? And how is it _trust_ when she’s meant to go live with strangers if something happens to you?” 

“Anna and Greg Lestrade aren’t strangers. They love Emily, and Emily loves them, and they’ll take wonderful care of her.” 

“And I wouldn’t?” 

“You’re the one with a bottle in her hand, Harry. One little stumble and—” 

“Is that what you think? I’m drinking because you _might_ die, and I _might_ lose Emily?” Harry laughed, but it was hollow. “Do you really think I sit up at night and kick you off in my imagination so that Emily is mine and we play happy families? Wonder how I’d do it. Chasing after your mad criminals, or maybe send you flying off the top of St Bart’s? Worked for Sherlock, didn’t it?” 

John dropped the glass and the bottle into the sink with a clattering crash, and turned to Harry, eyes flashing. He held out his hand. 

“Hand it over,” he snapped. 

“No,” said Harry, and lifted her chin. “You’re kicking me out – what’s it matter to you if I take it with me?” 

“Because you’re my _sister_ , and I don’t want you getting drunk and falling into the Thames on Christmas Eve!” 

“Still trying to fix me, aren’t you?” scoffed Harry, and she turned back into the sitting room. “Well, you can’t, big brother. I’m not repairable. And anyway, you know I’d just go out and buy more, if you kick me out.” 

John swore, and rubbed his eyes. “Christ, Harry.” 

“I’m okay, though,” said Harry stubbornly. “You wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t smelled my drink. I’m better.” 

“You don’t just get over being an alcoholic, Harry,” said John wearily. “It’s not the flu. You _know_ that.” 

“Do I?” 

“Harry…” 

_And ever o'er its Babel sounds, the blessed angels sing._

Harry stared at the line of Christmas cards, strung up on the wall beside the smiley face. “She sent me a card.” 

John exhaled. “Clara.” 

“Of _course_ Clara.” 

“I didn’t know you were still in touch.” 

“I’m not. You know what she signed it? Love.” Harry laughed, hollowly. “Do you think she meant it?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“She said she was living in Bristol. Found a good job there. Dated a beta for a while, but they broke up. She said he didn’t hold a candle to me, he left her because she couldn’t stop talking about me. Stupid cow.” Harry choked on the word, and let out a half sob. “And then she signs _love_ , because she’s too stupid to move on with her life and find someone who can give her what she wants. That was the whole _point_. She wasn’t supposed to keep _loving_ me.” 

“Maybe she still does,” said John quietly. 

Harry scoffed. “Loving me never got her anywhere.” 

“It made her happy.” 

“Bollocks. Crying every couple of months, watching all the other couples turn out children like muffins. Loving me didn’t do her any favors. She’s better off with someone else.” 

“No, Harry.” 

“I don’t get to keep the people I love, John. Neither of us do, did you notice? Mary’s dead and Sherlock’s dead and Mum and Dad are dead. Clara’s gone and you’ll go someday, and Emily shuttled off to strangers – I don’t care if they’re friends of yours, they’re strangers to me. Can’t count on them to forgive me every time I mess up, can I? What’s the point of loving anyone if they’re all just going to leave me in the end?” 

“Harry….” 

“What’d loving Sherlock Holmes do for you? Up the duff and all alone, mountains of bills to pay—” 

“Stop,” said John. 

“No, he had to jump off a building, didn’t he? Make you watch, even – the selfish bastard. Don’t tell me you don’t agree.” 

“I don’t,” said John quietly, so quietly that Harry couldn’t even hear the warning in his voice. 

“You’re lucky, you know. He would have always failed you – you’re better off that he died, you can build him up any way you like to Emily. Maybe she’ll grow up thinking her father was a hero after all.” 

_O ye beneath life's crushing load, whose forms are bending low_  
_Who toil along the climbing way with painful steps and slow;_

John stared at Harry, barely able to breathe. 

Harry shook, took in a shuddering breath, before releasing it, and with it, the tension left her body, the fury and the hurt and the pain, and John saw her crumble, having been powered only by those emotions for God knew how long. He waited, watched as Harry fell to pieces in front of him, and then pulled herself back together. 

“John—” 

“No,” said John quietly. “You know what? Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am lucky. By the time Emily is old enough to understand what I tell her about her father, all the rumors and stories and press releases, all the controversy and the accusations will be things of the past. No one will remember Sherlock Holmes, except for those who knew him. She’s never going to be burdened with him or his name. She’ll only know what I tell her, what her family tells her. And it will _never_ include the belief that she is better off without him. Because she’s _not_. She is infinitely worse without him, Harry. _I’m_ worse without him. He was a great man, Harry, and I’ll never stop believing that he was on his way to being a good man, and I’m so sorry that you never saw that side of him, because I would have dearly loved for you to help me explain this to Emily, as she grew older. But as long as you keep believing the worst of him – and the worst of me for loving him – then I’m not entirely sure I can trust you with his memory.” 

“John—” 

“You should go. I would still like for you to leave the rum. You’re right, you can always buy more. But what sort of brother would I be, if I were to let you leave here with it?” 

Harry reached into her pocket and pulled out the thin flask. She handed it to John, and he set it on the table, where the glass and the Coke had been. “I’m sorry,” Harry whispered. 

“I know,” said John, and he put his arms around her and held her tightly, let her hold him. She smelled like Harry, and he closed his eyes and pretended that it was Harry, a sober Harry, a well Harry, the little sister he remembered from so long ago, the memories themselves were sepia-toned. 

Harry pushed him away, and without looking back, pulled her coat from the hook and fled down the stairs. John waited until the front door shut before he sat on his chair again. 

It was a long while before he turned his attention from the window to the silver flask on the table. It reflected the colors of the lights strung around the windows, and John felt his fingers itch. 

_Look now, for glad and golden hours_  
_Come swiftly on the wing;_  
_Oh rest beside the weary road_  
_And hear the angels sing._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! And yes – Heart2 is coming, sometime after the New Year (though probably closer to Valentine’s Day than New Year’s Day). It’s called Dangerous Disadvantages, so keep your eyes peeled (or follow the #the heart in him hashtag on Tumblr, where I’ll post updates). In the meantime, enjoy the rest of yours and Emily’s Christmas!

_I’m dreaming of a white Christmas_

John wasn’t sure where he was walking. All he knew was that he wanted to get away from Mycroft, to get away from the strains of the piano and of Aurora Holmes singing plaintively. Emily was safe, Emily was happy, and John couldn’t remember very many times in the previous ten months when he was able to not worry about Emily, because every minute he was awake, he worried about Emily. 

Even now, with Emily safe on her grandmother’s knee, he worried about Emily. Most of the worries were the ridiculous ones – suppose there was an accident at nursery, suppose she managed to tumble down the stairs, suppose she somehow climbed up to the counter and pulled the electric kettle over on herself, suppose she simply _stopped breathing_ while she slept. John had scoffed at the baby monitors with little video screens on them; now he understood their appeal. 

Then there were the more pedestrian worries. Suppose she never progressed beyond babbling. Suppose she never got the hang of walking (because she showed exactly no interest in it at all). Suppose Mycroft was right, that she wasn’t quite as quick or clever as John imagined, that she was a bit behind the curve compared to her age-mates. Suppose the lack of an alpha in her life stunted her emotionally, somehow. 

This was what worried John most of all in his waking hours. He couldn’t claim it kept him awake at night, because by the time he was able to go to bed, he was too exhausted to do anything but sleep anyway. But sometimes he would catch sight of other families, two parents to a single, adored child, and he would look at Emily and remember that it was only him, and that if anything happened to _him_ … 

It wasn’t true. John wasn’t stupid, he’d made sure his will specified what would happen to Emily – a simple, secure life with Anna and Greg Lestrade. They weren’t family, not exactly, but it wasn’t as though Mycroft had been exactly the doting uncle, and Harry had always agreed she was a terrible choice for a mother. And Anna loved Emily to distraction, had seen her once or twice a week since the day she was born, and Greg had promised that he’d make sure Mycroft and Aurora and Harry were never cut out of Emily’s life. John believed him. If Emily couldn’t have John –and would never have Sherlock – then at least Greg and Anna could make sure she knew the best of both her fathers. 

The ground near the house were frost-covered, the grass stiff and sharp under his shoes. John huddled into his coat, somewhat insufficient to a wintery holiday in the country. The grass crackled and snapped as he walked over the lawn and to the gardens, and the frost grew thicker the further he got from the house. He thought he could still hear the music playing, floating behind him, but that was surely his imagination. 

_Just like the ones I used to know._

John let himself wallow in his imagination a little; Christmas, in the snow-frosted country, in a comfortable old family house bright and shining with light. He could imagine Sherlock in the house far too easily, leaning against doorways, his jacket half buttoned, his hair at its curliest, most rumpled mess. Hands in his pockets, the smile breaking into a grin. He imagined what Sherlock would have said about Mycroft’s ridiculous questions. 

Sherlock would be walking alongside him now, if he were here. He’d have sighed and rolled his eyes when Aurora whisked Emily away, he’d have delayed John in the bedroom, wanting to take a few minutes to themselves, to break in the bed or the floor or the couch. He would be halfway across the lawn already, wanting to see exactly how frozen the pond was, if it would support his weight. He’d be driving John completely mad, and he’d be doing it just for the fun of watching. 

John reached the greenhouse, and went inside. It was warmer in the greenhouse, but not quite enough that he wanted to take off his coat. Most of the shelves and tables were bare, except for a few stray poinsettias that hadn’t made it into the house just yet, and a rather sad-looking rosemary tree. 

The memory hit him so sharply, that John stopped in his tracks. Mary, with a tiny rosemary tree, tying its branches with small red and green bows, and sprinkling gold glitter over it. “It’s more practical than a big one,” she explained, “because we don’t have very much space and then I can use the sprigs for cooking after Christmas.” 

“You don’t cook,” said John patiently, but Mary laughed. 

“I will after you give me a cookbook as a present.” 

“Why would I give you a cookbook as a present, you don’t cook!” 

“I don’t cook because you haven’t given me a cookbook yet, silly man!” Mary had kissed his nose and wrapped herself around him and they’d knocked into the table, sending the tree and bows and glitter all over the floor. Months later, John still found gold glitter on his clothes. 

Rosemary, for remembrance, he thought, and went to examine the tree. The soil was damp, but not overly so; when he crushed the leaves between his fingers, scent filled the air. Mary’s tree had survived the fall, and after the incident that killed her, had gone home with her brother Bill. 

John wondered what Mary would have thought of Emily. She’d always been scathingly adoring of the students in her class, and perfectly content to never have children of her own. He suspected she would have liked Emily on someone else’s lap. 

Sherlock and Mary probably would not have liked each other very much. Mary would have found Sherlock to be pretentious and cold. Sherlock would have found Mary to be hypocritical and posturing, and they would have spent any amount of time together attempting to prove alpha superiority by pretending that they weren’t continually trying to prove the other to be idiotic. Mary would have become especially loving, and Sherlock would have become rather demanding, and John would have ended any meeting with a headache. 

John believed in God, but he wasn’t altogether sure what an afterlife would entail. Then again, the only thing that might have brought Mary and Sherlock together would be an equal abhorrence of heavenly song while wearing white robes and strumming harps. They would have staged a rebellion and set fire to St Peter’s robes before the end of the week. 

_Where treetops glisten, and children listen, to hear sleigh bells in the snow._

The door to the greenhouse opened, John looked over his shoulder and caught sight of Mycroft, wearing a heavy woolen overcoat, a dark red scarf, and, most incongruously, a flat cap, more suited to a day of stomping about the woods hunting deer or partridge than it did a winter’s walk in the garden. It did not look like a hat Mycroft would have worn if given half a choice, and John tried not to smirk. 

“It belonged to my father,” said Mycroft stiffly. 

“Oh, of course, pardon _me_ ,” said John, and turned back to the rosemary plant. 

“My mother wished you to know that we can open presents whenever you think is best. She appears to believe that Emily will want a nap near two?” 

“That’s when she sleeps in the afternoon, yes. Maybe presents after she wakes up? She might be too wound up to sleep otherwise.” 

“They’re singing about a reindeer,” said Mycroft, with some amount of distaste, and John tried not to roll his eyes. 

“I’m sure Emily will pick up on In Excelsis Deo any day now.” 

“You seem to think that I don’t care for her.” 

John straightened his shoulders. “You haven’t given me much cause to think otherwise.” 

“You must not mistake my lack of…contact in the last few months as a sign that I do not care for Emily. It is only…” Mycroft hesitated. 

“Go on,” said John. 

“My brother and I did not have what you would call an amicable relationship.” 

“Really.” 

“Sarcasm does not suit you, John.” 

“Everyone always says that,” said John. “I have no idea why, I think I can manage sarcasm extremely well.” 

“If Sherlock were alive…” 

“Well, he’s not,” said John sharply. He turned to look Mycroft as squarely in the eye as he could manage. “So I don’t really care what you think Sherlock would have wanted in regards to your relationship with Emily. I told you when Emily was born that I wanted you to be a part of her life, because Sherlock was part of yours, and the only way he’s going to be part of _hers_ is if she’s surrounded by those who knew and loved him.” 

“You’re so sure I was part of that esteemed group?” asked Mycroft softly. 

“You were brothers, you grew up together. You must have cared for each other _once_.” 

Mycroft looked out the windows to the grounds. “You make a fatal mistake, John, when you compare your relationship with your sister to mine with my brother. I am not certain there was ever a time when we could consider each other… _friends_.” 

“I don’t believe that,” said John. “If you really didn’t care about him, you wouldn’t have kidnapped me the day I met Sherlock.” 

Mycroft chuckled. “He’s rubbed off on you.” 

“Went both ways, I’m sure,” said John. 

Mycroft said nothing. John watched the other man for a moment, but Mycroft made no indication of speaking or moving, and finally, John sighed. “I’m not saying I want you to be on the babysitting roster, Mycroft. I’m just…spend a little time with her. Let her know you. She’ll be at a disadvantage her entire life for not knowing Sherlock. I can’t give her what he could have – but you can. She needs you.” 

“You named the Lestrades as her guardians, should something happen to you.” 

John huffed. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you know that.” 

“John. A _little_ credit.” 

“I did, yes. They’re never going to have children of their own, and Anna loves Emily to bits. Harry would make a horrible mother, I don’t have to tell you why. And Greg knew Sherlock better than anyone else. If Emily ends up being half as brilliant as he was – well, he’ll make sure she gets the help she needs.” 

“You think she needs help?” 

John frowned. Mycroft sounded – odd, for a moment. Almost frightened, as if he was scared that John was going to reply with something drastic. 

“I think she might,” he said slowly. “She’s not stupid. I think she’s brilliant, actually. That’s why she’s going to need help. I don’t know what Sherlock was like as a child, but it can’t have been easy for him, being so fantastically smart. Things he said – I think he was very lonely. I don’t want that for Emily.” 

“No,” said Mycroft quietly. “I don’t suppose you do.” 

John didn’t think there was more to say – silence hung in the air like frost. He almost wished he had his cane again, so he could tap it hard against the floor to mark an end to the conversation. “Well,” he said, and it sounded less finite or decisive than the cane might have been. “I should find Emily, see if she’s ready for a nap.” 

“My salutations to the reindeer.” 

“I’m sure they’ve moved on to talking snowmen by now.” John turned to leave the greenhouse, but stopped just at the door when Mycroft spoke. 

“John. I…my brother would have made a horrible parent, I think.” 

John rested his hand on the door. “Well. We’ll never know. It doesn’t matter. I think you’ll be a very good uncle, if you want.” 

_I’m dreaming of a white Christmas with every Christmas card I write_

John left the greenhouse; Mycroft watched his progress across the lawn. He walked with his back straight, but his head bowed, as if walking into a strong wind, and Mycroft felt the mobile in his pocket buzz softly. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen, then waited until John had disappeared into the house before tapping the button that would show the entirety of the message. 

_How is John?_

Mycroft closed the message without replying, and put the mobile back in his pocket. 

_May your days be merry and bright_   
_And may all your Christmases be white_   


* 

_Silent night; holy night._  
 _All is calm. All is bright._

Emily slept. 

Elsewhere in the house, Aurora sat by a fire and listened to the radio as she worked her embroidery. She seemed perfectly content in a way that John hadn’t seen her before, even in a way that he thought she hadn’t felt in some time. 

“It’s a lovely Christmas, isn’t it, John?” she had asked him, and sounded surprised with herself. 

“Yes,” John had said, not quite believing it for himself, but glad it was true for Aurora, at least. John himself had never felt more lonely in his life, not when he was surrounded by people meant to be family. 

_Round yon virgin, mother and child._

John lay on the bed next to Emily, who was splayed in the center, breathing evenly, smiling every so often in her sleep as she often did. He held his mobile in his hand, weighing it, scrolling through the names and the numbers, and every time he landed on Harry’s, he paused. 

Finally, he carefully got to his feet, trying not to jostle the bed too much, and slipped out of the room in into the small sub-room. It was a tiny bolt-hole of a room, a wardrobe or reading nook, but it smelled so strongly of chemicals that John had little illusions about what Sherlock had used it for as a child. 

“Hello, this is Harriet Watson. Leave a message if you want, but I’ll see you’re a missed call anyway. Eventually. I might call you back. Or depending on who you are, I might not.” 

John had always thought that Harry referred to Clara with that threat. He wondered if Harry included him in it now, too. 

“Harry. I…look. I’m sorry. I’m worried about you. Please, just give me a call and let me know you’re all right. I…stupid to say Happy Christmas, I don’t suppose either of us are having one, but...yeah. Love you.” 

John pressed the end button, and leaned against the wall. It was difficult to breathe in the little room, but he didn’t want to leave it just yet. He started to scroll through the names in his address book again. 

Harry, Lestrade, Mike, Molly, Mycroft…Sherlock. 

_Holy infant so tender and mild._

John looked at the number, and without even thinking about it, pressed _connect_. 

He hung up again before it had a chance to ring. Ridiculous. He knew where Sherlock’s phone was; in the dresser drawer, tucked behind his socks. The plan had run out a year ago, and he hadn’t bothered to renew it. The phone number wasn’t even Sherlock’s anymore. 

John wondered if some poor sod in London was getting phone calls asking for help with their cheating spouses or missing necklaces or murdered boyfriends, and he couldn’t help the giggle that escaped. Poor wanker, if he was. 

John half thought he ought to call and apologize, maybe tell whoever had the new number to ignore the calls – or even more alarming, give the callers John’s number instead. 

_No one will remember Sherlock Holmes, except for those who knew him._

No one was calling Sherlock’s number, looking for him to solve their problems. John wasn’t sure what would be worse – hearing from people desperate for answers, or knowing that there was no one left who thought Sherlock would be the one to provide them. 

_Sleep in heavenly peace._

John closed his mobile with a click, and slid it back into his pocket. There was a soft cry from the bedroom – Emily waking up. Nappy, something to eat, a bit of a nurse (though John was willing to admit it was more for him than for her), and then downstairs, to join Aurora and Mycroft, and play at happy families again. The day would be over soon, and night would pass, and in the morning, he and Emily would be free to go home and continue living their lives again. 

John wondered how long he’d be pretending he was alright, before he started believing it. 

_Sleep in heavenly peace._

* 

_Hark how the bells_  
 _Sweet silver bells_

The sitting room was perhaps the most cheerful room in the entire house; the tree was lit with brightly colored lights and candles, paper snowflakes and wooden ornaments which John suspected might be antique. There was holly and red ribbons on the mantelpiece, poinsettias on every flat surface, and a fire burning merrily behind the grate. Candles in the windows, and music playing on the stereo, the classic songs John remembered from childhood. It was comfortably warm and John almost wished he wasn’t wearing a jumper. 

Discarded tissue and wrapping paper littered the room; John saw Mycroft eye the debris with distaste, but the man made no move to pick any of it up. John himself couldn’t be arsed; he had a limited time to figure out how the camera in his hands worked before Emily lost interest in the bouncing tiger sitting on the floor in front of her, and John wanted desperately to get a picture before it was too late. The toy was marked for ages three and up, but even John, who had found himself to be more of a stickler for age appropriate gifts than he’d have thought, couldn’t understand why any three year old would be impressed. All the tiger did was bounce on its tail, playing an inane, cheerful song that he had no doubt would bury itself under his skin and drive him completely spare within days. And yet Emily sat there, laughing so hysterically hard that she nearly toppled over twice, only to be rescued by her grandmother, who laughed along with her as if Emily had invented China. 

Every time the music stopped, Aurora reached over and squeezed the tiger’s feet, chanting, “Catch a tiger by the toe!” And it would start again, the music and the laughter and John’s ever escalating frustration at the camera in his lap which steadfastly refused to work. 

“I should have thought you had a camera on your mobile,” said Mycroft, and John glanced up at him before turning back to the camera guide. 

“You heard your mother – it takes bloody awful photographs.” 

“John.” 

John didn’t look up. “I’m trying to concentrate.” 

“As am I,” said Mycroft. “My mother would like you both to stay through to the weekend.” 

“Thank you, but no,” said John firmly. “I don’t want to disrupt Emily’s schedule.” 

“Emily is barely a year old. She doesn’t have a schedule.” 

“Actually, she does. She goes to nursery and has naps and playdates with friends and Mrs Hudson is expecting us for dinner tomorrow night.” 

“She goes to nursery because you go to work and I happen to know you have the rest of the week off. She napped perfectly well this afternoon on your bed and she has _family_ here.” 

“There are things I need to do in London, Mycroft.” 

“My mother—” 

“Understands, and has not brought it up with me,” said John. 

“My mother is opposed to any idea that she could be twisting your arm by suggesting you stay.” 

“Such a relief that you hold no such compunction,” said John dryly. “Thank you, but no. We’ll be going home tomorrow.” 

Mycroft was silent for a moment. “Of course,” he said smoothly. “If you look to your settings, you’ll see that you have failed to set the focus to point. That could be why the camera is not taking photographs properly.” 

_All seem to say_  
 _Throw cares away_

Mycroft stood, and walked out of the room, rustling tissue paper on his way. John frowned and made the adjustment, and then held the camera up to take a photograph. He saw Aurora through the viewfinder, her eyes following Mycroft, the moment before he pressed the button and took the picture. When the shutter clicked open again, Aurora looked at him instead. 

“Not terribly well done, I think,” said Aurora thoughtfully, as Emily flapped her arms happily and chortled at the tiger toy. 

“Me or Mycroft?” asked John wryly, and looked at the photo as it appeared on the camera’s screen. It wasn’t half bad, though the light exposure needed adjustment. He turned the pages in the camera guide. 

“Either of you, I suppose. Mycroft can be terribly subtle and heavy as a hammer simultaneously. I’m not sure where he learned that trick.” 

“You’re joking, right?” 

The tiger stopped its ridiculous dance and Emily let out an indignant squawk, scrambling to grab its foot in her chubby hand. When she squeezed the correct spot, starting the music again, it was purely accidental, and she let out a surprised cry before falling over in shock. 

“There, I knew you’d catch on,” Aurora said to her, pleased, and righted Emily once more. “Minimum age, three years, quite ludicrous. If a three year old _can’t_ figure out this toy, I worry for the future of the human race.” 

“I think the concern is the mechanical parts, and that a child could catch their finger in them,” said John. “Or maybe eat them. I really don’t know.” 

“Absurd. John, you do of course understand that you are welcome here at any time, for any length of time, and you needn’t ask, you need only arrive.” 

John swallowed and found it hard-going. “I…I know that. I don’t want to abuse your hospitality.” 

“It’s not hospitality, it’s _family_ ,” said Aurora firmly. “Emily is my granddaughter. Sherlock was her father.” 

“I’m not Sherlock.” 

“Thank heaven. He would have been quite hopeless trying to raise her by himself.” 

John’s heart pounded hard in his chest. “Neither you nor Mycroft give him nearly enough credit.” 

“ _Children_ weren’t something he necessarily wanted,” said Aurora, and sounded as if she knew. “He preferred the company of adults even as a small boy. Fools, the lot of them, and he never suffered fools gladly.” 

“He put up with me, I think.” 

“You, Dr Watson, are not nor have you ever been a fool.” 

“I think he’d have made a good father, given the opportunity. Even if you and Mycroft don’t agree.” 

“You didn’t know him as long as we did.” 

“No,” said John quietly. He thought of a long-ago conversation in a quiet bedroom, the flush of a heat fading on their skin, light streaming in through darkened windows. “I didn’t. But I think I knew him as a man better than either of you. And I think – I think he would have wanted the opportunity to try.” 

_Christmas is here_  
 _Bringing good cheer_  
 _To young and old_  
 _Meek and the bold._

Aurora’s eyes were on Emily, who had pulled the soft tiger into her arms and was hugging the squirming body close to her chest, its plush ear in her mouth. 

“No, Emily,” said Aurora, gently but firmly, and she tried to remove the tiger from her granddaughter’s mouth. “You mustn’t eat your tiger. He doesn’t taste the least bit nice.” 

“Try it with some brown sauce,” suggested John, and took a picture, unable to help feeling a little bit vindicated and smug. 

“Here,” said Aurora, and reached behind her for a stuffed elephant, plush and grey with bright button eyes, nearly as large as Emily, and soft enough to be pleasantly squishable. Emily happily gave up the tiger and reached for the elephant, which she gave a tight hug. “Elephant. Can you say elephant, Emily?” 

“Bit young for elephant,” said John. 

“Never underestimate a Holmes, John,” said Aurora, eyes on her granddaughter. “ _Elephant_ , Emily.” 

John let the camera rest in his lap. “You think I’m going to stifle her. Stunt her intellectually.” 

Aurora’s eyes snapped up. “John. And you are generally the very epitome of unfoolish.” 

“Well. You’re trying to get her to say elephant. My sister is giving her musical boxes that play Mozart. And Mycroft insists that you spend as much time with her as possible. What am I supposed to think?” John heard the bitter tone in his voice, and couldn’t look Aurora in the eye. 

“I’m trying to stimulate her verbal skills – she’s already trying to form words, I’m simply attempting to guide her. Your sister has clearly been doing her homework in regards to the dubious benefits of music and Mozart with young babies; it’s not meant to be a commentary on your inherent lack of them – which is not reflective of your own talents in other areas. And if Mycroft wishes that I spend more time with my granddaughter, it is because he knows how important it is to you that Emily be close to Sherlock’s family as well as yours.” 

John huffed out a laugh. “Oh, that’s rich. He won’t even spend ten minutes in the same room as her.” 

“She’s her father’s daughter, John. He’s afraid of loving her too much, the way he loved Sherlock.” 

John snorted again, but still didn’t meet Aurora’s eyes. He went quiet for a moment, listening to the soft strains of the music from the stereo. 

John sighed, and fingered the camera in his lap. “He told me he thought Sherlock would have cut him out of her life, if he’d been alive.” 

“Isn’t it lucky for both of them, then, that you have a more reasonable outlook?” said Aurora. 

“Not that I’ll convince Mycroft of that. He seems to think I’m going to turn into Sherlock at any moment.” 

Aurora chuckled, and pressed the tiger’s foot, setting it off again. John watched his daughter laugh at the toy, and thought about Mycroft loving anyone too much, even Sherlock – the way Mycroft had been at 221B every week, his insistence that Sherlock took various cases, the way he’d tried to carve a place for himself in Sherlock’s life. 

It was easy to think that betas didn’t feel the emotional tug of a bond, that the connections formed between alphas and omegas were privileged and unique. Well, maybe they were, in a way, but John thought about Anna Lestrade, and the way she played and sang and danced with Emily, who reached for her almost as often as she reached for John. He thought of Harry, how his entire chest hurt when he saw the quiver in her lips, the way she’d glanced longingly at the bottle on the table, and he knew some bonds had nothing at all to do with pheromones. 

_One seems to hear_  
 _Words of good cheer_  
 _Filling the air_  
 _From everywhere_

Almost as if thinking about her had done some sort of magical trick, the mobile in John’s pocket buzzed. Aurora glanced up. 

“My sister,” said John, looking at the screen, and Aurora smiled, a little as if she knew, and John slipped out of the room and into the cool, empty hallway. 

“I’m home,” said Harry, cautiously, a little slurred, but John thought that was sleep, not drink. “Just woke up. I walked.” 

“From Baker Street to Birmingham?” asked John. “Or to the train station?” 

“Neither. Well, to Euston Station, eventually, but I walked the river first. All the way to the Tower.” 

“Christ, Harry, that’s what, eight kilometers? It was near freezing last night.” 

“Well, I didn’t stop. And there was enough rum in me, it’s not like I was going to freeze.” 

“Harry.” 

“I thought about a few things. If something happens to you – I don’t want to lose Emily.” 

John closed his eyes and wondered if he’d have to fight this battle his entire life. “Harry – you aren’t going to lose Emily if something happens to me. Greg and Anna—” 

“I know, they’ve said they won’t cut me out, and Anna’s lovely, but…Johnny. I love her. I love Emily so much it hurts to breathe sometimes, because she thinks I’m wonderful. She looks at me the same way that Clara used to look at me. And I’m never going to have kids of my own, John, it’s Emily or nothing, and I can’t have nothing. I’ve got to have Emily, and I’ll do anything, _anything_ , to make you believe that I’m going to try this time. I know I’ve said I would before, and maybe you’ve stopped believing me, maybe I’ve stopped believing me too. But…I didn’t have Emily before. I know I don’t have her now—” 

“Harry,” said John. 

“—but she’s mine all the same. She’s blood, John. She’s _my_ blood. I can’t lose her. I can’t.” 

“And Sherlock?” 

Harry’s breath hitched. “I won’t say I liked him. But I’ll make sure she knew you loved him, and God help me, I’ll try to understand why, for your sake.” 

“I don’t know, Harry.” 

“Just…think about it? Please? It can be my Christmas present.” 

“I got you a scarf.” 

“I’ll give it back.” 

John chuckled; his throat felt too small. “All right. I’ll think about it.” 

Silence. John waited, but heard nothing. 

“Harry?” 

“Okay,” said Harry, her voice oddly strong. “I’m going to hang up and have a cry now.” 

“Love you,” said John, and his throat felt tighter than before. He grinned. 

“Yeah, you too,” said Harry carelessly, and rang off. 

John slid the mobile back in his pocket and exhaled slowly. Moot anyway, it was all moot, nothing happened to him anymore. Everything wonderful and horrible had already happened to him, there was simply nothing else left that could surprise him. 

Even Mycroft, standing opposite him in the hallway, was expected, because Mycroft being unexpected was simply what Mycroft did, and therefore John had become used to seeing him at precisely the wrong moments. 

_Oh how they pound_  
 _Raising the sound_  
 _O’er hill and dale_  
 _Telling their tale._

“Yes, Mycroft?” asked John, a bit wearily. 

“I suppose she attends nursery every week day?” asked Mycroft carefully, and John noticed the smartphone in Mycroft’s hand. 

John raised an eyebrow. “Scheduling a playdate?” 

Mycroft did not change expression, nor did he move. John felt somewhat churlish, and nodded. “Every weekday, except Thursday mornings, and one Saturday morning every month, because I work some Saturdays. Mrs Hudson takes her one Saturday morning a month as well.” 

“Mrs Hudson is getting on in years,” said Mycroft. 

“Bit tricky now, with Emily being mobile, yes,” said John. 

“You should have help.” 

“I do. It’s called Mrs Hudson, the Lestrades, Harry, and your mother.” 

Mycroft frowned. “I meant a nanny.” 

“I can’t afford a nanny, and don’t go there, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft sighed. “John—” 

John took pity on him. “I’m working this Saturday. But next Saturday, I was going to take Emily to the zoo. You’re welcome to come along.” 

“The…zoo.” 

“Yes,” said John. “Large area on the north end of Regent’s Park. A bit pedestrian for your tastes, I’m sure, but she likes the penguins.” 

“I would have thought the Tate would be more comfortable in this weather.” 

“The Tate’s a bit above me.” 

“But not me,” said Mycroft. 

“You? _Modern_ art?” 

“I am a man of many interests, Dr Watson,” said Mycroft haughtily. “I understand there is an excellent Interactive Zone for small children. We must stimulate her senses, John. It wouldn’t do to let her innate artistic abilities languish.” 

“I see,” said John, not entirely certain Mycroft wasn’t putting him on. 

“The main doors at 9.30,” continued Mycroft. “They won’t open until 10, but mention my name to the guard and you’ll have no trouble.” 

“Of course not,” said John, not the least bit surprised. 

“Until then,” said Mycroft, and went past John and into the sitting room. 

John took a moment. It was a rather long moment, but then, there was a rather lot to process. 

_Gaily they ring_  
 _While people sing_  
 _Songs of good cheer_  
 _Christmas is here._

When he finally followed Mycroft into the sitting room, he nearly walked right back out and returned to processing. Aurora and Emily, sitting on the floor, still dancing to the beat of a musical tiger. 

_Merry merry merry Christmas_

And Mycroft Holmes, sitting in a wingchair in Emily’s line of sight, but bouncing along all the same. 

_Merry merry merry Christmas_

John had left the camera sitting on the floor, but he didn’t think he’d need it. No still photograph could capture the moment quite as well as living in it, and John held his breath, afraid that one whisper would break the spell and shatter it. Emily laughed, and flapped her arms, and tumbled to her side, and Aurora righted her, and when Mycroft leaned heavily to the left, Emily copied him, and fell over again. 

_On on they send_

Mycroft’s mobile chirped. “Oh, Mycroft,” sighed Aurora, but it was too late, because the moment ended, and John sat next to his daughter while Mycroft glanced at his screen. “What is so important that it must interrupt Christmas Day?” 

_On without end_

“Much of consequence, but not at the moment,” said Mycroft, and after a moment of looking at Emily, he quickly typed a reply. 

_Their joyful tone_

John kissed Emily’s head, smelled talcum powder and oatmeal shampoo, and for a quiet moment, allowed himself to think about Sherlock, imagine him lounging on the sofa nearby, plucking the violin, adding to the music in the background, chiding Mycroft for being the British Government, and smiling at Emily’s joy. 

_To every home_

John could picture him watching, his disdain and his impatience not affecting the Christmas cheer in the slightest, and John smiled and kissed Emily’s head again. 

“John?” asked Aurora. “Shall we have supper soon?” 

_Ding dong ding dong_

“Yes,” said John. “I think that would be lovely.” 

_Ding dong ding….dong._

* 

_How is John?_

_You haven’t answered yet. Please respond._   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


John is well.


End file.
